by Rachel Hauck
As he speaks, Luther’s atmosphere changes. I see people start to whisper and point, and the hair on my arms prickles. Without seeing, my intuition tells me who’s entered the room. There’s only one person who could electrify a local crowd like that. What’s he doing here?
Loud and excited voices roll back from the front. Elle stands on her chair to see what’s going on. With wide eyes, she looks down at me and Jess. “It’s Mitch.”
7
In tenth grade, Mitch walked into homeroom—much like he is doing now—and zapped the air. My eyes followed him as he walked down the rows, looking for a seat. Every girl prayed he’d pick the one next to her. But with proton pulses blipping around him, he stopped by me and asked, “Is this seat taken?”
I eeked or something, shook my head no and he sat, knocking the wind right out of me.
And he’s doing it again. I draw a deep breath and exhale slowly, savoring the air.
Branan, seeing the commotion swirling around his audience, spies Mitch among the faces. “Mitch O’Neal . . . Come slumming, man?” He laughs and gestures to the country star with a sweep of his arm. “Come on, sing for the home folks.”
Mitch hesitates. “I just came in for a burger. Do we have to sing for our food now?”
The room exhales with laughter.
Elle cups her hands around her mouth. “Sing, Mitch.”
Mitch shields his eyes from the lights and gazes in our direction. “That’s got to be Elle Garvey.”
“You got it, baby.”
Mitch smiles easily as he’s urged to strap on Branan’s guitar. “Elle Garvey . . . head cheerleader . . . used to get me laughing in Spanish class when she answered Mrs. Gonzales in Pig Latin.”
“Ouyay ememberedray.”
“How could I forget?” Mitch tunes the guitar.
J. D.’s closer now than before, his leg gently resting against mine. “Good to see Mitch, isn’t it?” I say.
“Yeah, it’s been a while.” He grabs my hand and doesn’t let go.
The moment Mitch begins to play, everything stops. The TVs, the voices, the movement.
“I love the lowcountry,” he says over the light picking of the guitar. “As soon as I hit the Beaufort County line, I rolled down my window and breathed deep. It’s good to be”—his eyes stop on me—“home.”
J. D. clutches my hand tighter.
A shout comes from the front entrance. “I’m in the house.” Wild Wally barrels into the room.
Our little crowd in the back hoots. “Wild Wallyyyyy.”
Wally spies Mitch. “Oh, man, look what Nashville sent back.” Jumping onto the stage, he wraps the country crooner in a thick-armed hug—guitar and all.
“Wild Wally,” Mitch claps him on the back. “For those of you who don’t know, he’s the best offensive lineman Beaufort High and S.C. State ever turned out.”
“Yeah!” Wally pumps his tan, muscular arms over his head. He owns a massive landscaping and lawn-care service. His face is perpetually sunburned.
“Good to see you, man.” Mitch faces the mike again. “I forgot what I was saying.”
“Good to be back in Beaufort,” someone shouts.
“Right.” Mitch’s tone is warm and introspective. “In the spring, the band and I toured Europe. How many of you have ever been to Paris?”
A few hands go up, followed by a light smattering of applause.
“City of Lights. Beautiful. But my favorite place on earth is right here.”
Listening, I prop my chin in my free hand. Having seen Mitch only briefly in the last year, I watch him, wondering. Something’s . . . different.
“We had a scary encounter in Paris. Sometimes fear is the only thing that makes us wake up and realize we’ve drifted way over life’s yellow line.”
Humility is reflected in his transparency.
“This song is called ‘Yellow Line.’”
Jess jiggles my arm. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
I shrug. “No.”
“Me neither. And I keep up with news about him.”
Mitch’s song floats over us.
And I’ve crossed over the yellow line.
Gone beyond where it’s safe to roam.
I’ve gone too far with this will of mine.
And I don’t know if I can ever come home.
The melody resonates with hundreds of other Mitch-melodies that have painted my soul over the years. The ones he sang for me on his daddy’s porch, or mine, before Nashville lured him away. Tears surprise in my eyes. Behind me, Jess whispers to Ray for a napkin. Yes, definitely something’s changed with Mitch. Boundaries used to be the enemy, but this song reflects a different attitude.
The population of Luther’s has probably doubled in the last five minutes. The air is stifling. I stand to shake the closed-in feeling of a crowded room. When I do, J. D. wraps his arm around my waist and holds me close. His chest is warm against my back.
“You okay?” He whispers in my ear. The scent around him is clean and spicy.
“Yes.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests.
“O-okay.”
Taking my hand, he leads me out the back door. I wave good-bye to Elle and Jess with a backward glance at Mitch. He catches me with a nod of his chin.
Outside, the river breeze feels good and blows the sentiment of Mitch off of my senses.
“I hope you don’t mind leaving early,” J. D. says, “but I work a double tomorrow and wanted some time alone with you.”
“It feels good to be outside.”
Sailboats drift by, beautiful with white lights. On nights like this I wonder how I could ever leave home.
But Barcelona . . . I didn’t have a chance to talk to Elle.
“So . . .” J. D. falls against the waterfront’s cement pylon, crossing his arms. “What’s the deal with you and O’Neal?”
“Deal?” I lean next to him and watch a schooner bob on the river’s surface, waiting for the bridge to open.
“Are you two, still, you know, close? A thing?”
“Would I be here with you if we were?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. You didn’t know he was going to be at Luther’s.”
“Exactly, Deputy Rand.” I hip butt him. “You’re making my point.” J. D. scratches his hand over his close-cut dark hair. “Just checking.”
“It’s no secret about Mitch and me. I loved him. But we didn’t work out, and after a bunch of years, I’m over him.”
“Good to know.”
We walk in silence toward his truck except for his boot heels scrap-ing against the walkway to the rhythm of my flip-flops. As we near the truck, he steps in front of me.
“Can we do this again?”
“Talk about me and Mitch?” I grin.
He laughs. “No, go out.”
“Do you have more in your repertoire than the Plaza and Luther’s?” J. D. pops open the passenger-side door. “I think I might.”
DAILY SPECIAL
Wednesday, June 6
Love Your Waitress Day
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Tea, Soda, Coffee
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8
To: CSweeney
From: Hazel Palmer
Subject: Re: Stop the call!
Caroline,
When I told Carlos, I made up an excuse because I do NOT want you to lose this opportunity. Remember, no small-town or family emergency?
This is what always happens to you. Someone needs you and your life becomes theirs. When is it going to be your time? Elle’s studied abroad and traveled. Mitch went to Nashville and found the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. I hired on with SRG International and the great Carlos Longoria. And now you have an opportunity to do something extraordinary and what happens? Break this cycle and come to Barcelona.
Remember the time we sat up all night talking o
ut on your dock? Right before I left for Florida State? You said you didn’t have any idea of what you wanted to do with your life, and you were half-afraid you inherited whatever made your mama weird out and run off, but you also didn’t want to wake up at forty and wonder where the years went.
Wake up. Take a chance. You’re not your mama, Caroline. Nor will you be. You’re already light-years different. Ten times sweeter. Kinder. Smarter. Sane.
Do you realize how many Hah-vard grads would kill for an opportunity to work with Carlos? Literally. First-degree murder. Risking twenty to life. Please don’t let this opportunity pass you by. I really did push Carlos on this. He’s traveling this week, so he’s distracted, but he wants to talk to you.
What do I think about you owning the Café? It’s a run-down, has-been dinosaur. A Beaufort knickknack. It needs investors with vision and money. Is this really where you see your life going? Is owning the Café the thing you’ll regret not doing? I don’t think so, Caroline.
Hazel
CFO, SRG International, Barcelona
There’s a fast knock outside the office, and Mercy Bea pops in before I can call, “Come in.”
“So, what’d the snooty lawyer say yesterday? Are we in business or not?” She crosses her arms. An unlit cigarette protrudes from her fingers.
“We’re in business.” I click out of Hazel’s e-mail, then stand, stretch-ing. “Is it still slow out there?”
It’s a little after eleven a.m. The breakfast crowd was solid this morn-ing, and now I’m hopeful for a lunch rush.
“Dead as a doornail. So, girl, come on. Are you going to leave us hanging? What’d the old coot put in his will?” Mercy Bea motions for me to follow her to the back porch, where she lights up her cigarette. “Do I have a job? Youngest young-son came home with a list longer than Clinton’s ex-girlfriends of stuff he needs for a basketball camp. As if money ain’t tight enough.” A wispy trail of smoke slithers upward. “Picked up an extra shift at the nursing home, though.”
“Yes, you still have a job.” For now.
The blonde bombshell taps her ashes toward the ashtray, but misses. Gray flakes flutter to the concrete porch. “Dang their daddy. Gave them his athletic ability, but not one plug nickel to help them out.”
“Plug nickels aren’t worth anything, Mercy Bea.”
“You know what I mean.”
Figuring now would be as good a time as any to tell them about Jones’s dying wishes, I peer through the kitchen’s screen door to see what Andy is doing. Cleaning under the ovens. “Come inside, Mercy. Let’s talk about the Café.”
I ask Andy to take a break from the toothbrush and bucket of soap, then call Russell from the pantry where he’s cleaning shelves. Mercy Bea joins them on the other side of the prep table.
“As you know, Kirk was here yesterday.” I face my small band of people. Their expressions make my heart thump.
As if listening in, the Café creaks and groans. The AC kicks in, and the lights brown out for a second. Then the entire Café goes black.
“Ah, no, not again.” Andy shoves past the prep table toward the fuse box. “Jones should’ve fixed this mess—all this old wiring. I tell you, Edison was alive when they installed these glass fuses.”
Electrical problems. Definitely a negative for saying yes to Jones’s will.
Andy pops open the fuse box and in the soft light coming through the windows, bangs around, pulling fuses and putting them back in.
With a buzz, the lights flicker on.
Then off.
Then on.
I exhale, unaware I was even holding my breath. For years, Jones knew the Café needed an electrical overhaul. He just never got around to it. One more reason the Café needs a moneyed owner.
“Spit it out, girl. You’re making me nervous.” Mercy Bea brings me back to the business at hand.
“Right, the will. Well . . .” I glance at my loyal crew. “You see . . .”
“Ain’t got all day, Caroline.”
Man, Mercy is pushy. “Jones left the Café to . . .” My voice bottoms out. “Me” is barely audible to my own ears.
“To who?” Mercy Bea’s head tilts to one side. The fingernail drum-ming stops.
“Caroline, Jones left the Café to you?” Andy stoops over for a clear view of my face.
Our eyes meet. “Yes, Jones left the Café to me.”
Tension and silence fall like hailstones. Hard and fast.
Mercy Bea fires up another cigarette right there in the middle of the kitchen. “Great day in the morning. You? Of all the . . . What in Sam Hill was he thinking?”
“Mercy Bea, take that outside.” Andy points to her cigarette. “Caroline, do you want the Café?”
“I don’t know.” I grip my hands together. “There’s this other job opportunity . . .”
“What job opportunity? What happens if you don’t take the Café?” Mercy Bea exhales a stream of smoke in my direction.
“Well . . .” Oh, now, this is unfair. Why do I have to be the one? “Kirk will close it down, sell the property, and donate the proceeds to charity.”
Andy’s broad shoulders slump ever so slightly, and for the first time I see a break in his confidence. “Well, that’s that.” He slips the towel off of his shoulder and snaps the air. “Ten years. Not a bad run. Are the want ads lying round?”
“Un-freaking-believable.” Mercy Bea’s puffing and blowing smoke. “I protest the will.”
“You can’t protest the will, Mercy Bea. You ain’t kin.” Andy’s big bicep tightens as he lifts the trash can, searching for the Beaufort Gazette classifieds.
“Now hold on, y’all. I haven’t decided.”
“There goes youngest young-son’s basketball camp.” Mercy-Bea-the-Positive unties her apron, clamping her red lips around the filter tip of her cigarette. “Since it’s dead here, I’m going to run down to Panini’s Café and Plums. See if they’re hiring. Maybe I’ll cross the line over to Paul Mulroney’s.”
Hear that, Caroline? Jones rolling over in his grave.
“Wait,” I holler. “Did you not hear me? I haven’t decided yet. Kirk is coming back next week for my decision.”
“I’ll be holding my breath.” Mercy Bea balloons her cheeks with a backward glance and kicks open the kitchen screen door.
“Let her be.” Andy sets the trash down. The want ads are rolled in his hand. “She needs to blow off steam.”
“What about you?”
“Lost my head for a second. I’ll find something to do in this town. Gloria’s back isn’t bothering her as much these days. She can go back to work until I get a job.”
“I’ll stick around, Caroline.” Russell speaks for the first time. “I’ll find work after we shut down.”
“Shut down. Come on, y’all. I haven’t decided.” Yet? “Andy, what should I do?”
“Can’t tell you.” He taps his chest. “Only you know what’s in your heart.”
Mitch sits on the back porch when I pull up home Wednesday evening.
“Hey,” I take the steps slowly, watching as he rises from the bench swing. “How long have you been here?”
“A few minutes.” His easy stride is accented by his baggy shorts, oversized shirt, and flip-flops. “Well, maybe like thirty minutes. Okay, forty-five.” He stops in front of me, smiling. “Actually, I have no idea. I dozed off.”
With a laugh, I squeeze past him. Even now, he’s electric and exciting. “Dork. Why didn’t you come to the Café?” I unlock the kitchen door and head inside.
“I figured you’d be home sooner or later.” He stands by the door, his blond hair loose about his face.
“Are you coming in or just holding open the door for the flies?”There’s a note in Posey’s handwriting tacked to the fridge. Gone shop-ping in Savannah. Dad & Posey.
“Guess I’ll sit for a bit.” Mitch walks the rest of the way in, taking a seat at the table. “Does your dad still have the soda fridge? He kept the drinks so cold, ice chips floated o
n top.”
“You know some things never change.”
“Like you.” His album-cover smile knocks at the closed, locked door of my heart.
Head: Go away.
Heart: Yeah, no one is hoooome.
“I’ve changed.” Haven’t I? Yes, definitely. How, I’m not sure, but surely I’ve changed. Yes, lookit, I’m ready to move way over to Spain and take a job I have no idea I can do. “Do you want root beer, diet, or what?” I shove open the mudroom door. The hinge is loose, so the bot-tom scrapes across the board floor. Dad’s tackle keeps the room perpetu-ally perfumed like rotten fish. “How long are you in town?”
“Root beer sounds good. Most of the summer. Taking some time for myself.”
“Nice.” Jerking on the leverlike handle of the old fridge, I take out two root beers. When I set his down in front of him, he says, “So, you and J. D. an item?”
Slowly, I pop open my drink. “We’ve gone out a few times.” Talking to Elle and Jess about my love life is one thing. Talking to Mitch? Awkward.
“He’s a decent guy.”
“Decent? Kind of a bland thing to say about your old buddy.”
Mitch grins. “Is it? I thought it was a compliment.”
“What about you? Last time I saw the cover of Country Weekly, you were engaged to that new singer Mallory Clark.”
Mitch pops the top off his root beer and slurps the foam oozing over the top. “We broke up six months ago.”
Curling my leg under me, I sit in one of the kitchen chairs and sip my icy soda. “I’m sorry. Who’s your woman now?”
Looking contemplative, he shakes his head. “Flying solo these days.”
“Mitch O’Neal, running around Nashville untethered? What is the world coming to?”
“Confounding, isn’t it? I’m working on a few life adjustments.”
“You seemed different to me last night.”
His exhale is half laugh, half regret. “Took God knocking me upside the head, but I’m waking up to some realities.”
“Realities?” Mitch hasn’t referenced God since before his Nashville days. I’m curious about the “realities” belonging to a distant, leave-me-to-my-business God. (Mind you, if there is a God. Jury is still out.)